


Cross My Heart and Hope to Die

by Tormented_Gale



Category: Tales of the Abyss
Genre: Gen, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:57:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2534966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tormented_Gale/pseuds/Tormented_Gale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr Request: Song Fic - ”Cross My Heart” by Forever The Sickest Kids - Sync complaining about his job as a God-General</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cross My Heart and Hope to Die

His feet beat a rhythm not unlike the one he follows when he’s beating the living daylights out of another soldier. Over and over, same schedule after same schedule, and he never fails to win. Someday they’ll get tired of it like he is, but they’ll get the choice to stop. That will never be an option for him.

Trees, dirt, gravel, sand - they’re all a blur to him, though he knows he’s passed each one or run over them or in some way, shape, or form been near them. They follow him wherever he goes on his uniform or in his shoes. He hates the rocks in his shoes. They come in threes or fours, never one, and he’s positive they’re sentient at this point.

Ahead of him the path yawns on. It is the same damn thing he saw yesterday, and the day before, but he won’t deviate from his course. He clenches his fists as he forces himself to speed up, as much a blur as the objects he passes without a second look. The Tempest, he remembers, and nearly laughs at the title.

He hates it.

He hates the barracks - smelly, unclean, uncouth, and downright horrible. He hates the men and women who chitter and chatter and wave around their weapons like they don’t care who they hit. He hates the rooms, the hallways, the training areas, but most of all he hates the suite he shares with five other people.

Most would kill to have his living arrangements. He would kill to be out of them.

First there’s Legretta. She’s the self-appointed ‘mother’ of sorts - chores, cooking (even though she can’t cook worth a damn), even bedtimes. They studiously ignore her, but it’s still there, and she still expects results. The same thing. The same monotony.

Second, there’s Dist. Half the time Sync wants to strangle him. The other half Sync is actually approaching Dist to do it, but a cooler head prevails (see - Largo). That chair will one day be tampered with unexpectedly and send Dist through the roof, out of Daath, and into the ocean. Sync has plans. He’ll never accomplish those plans, but he has plans.

See? Monotony.

Arietta is a whole other category on her own. He doesn’t know what to do with her, but he’s certain he hates her too. She clutches her stuffed animal to her chest like a shield and murmurs under her breath about Ion. Ion this, Ion that, where is Master Ion? When is he coming for me? Pathetic.

Asch is another one who Sync thinks could use a bat to the head, but he begrudgingly respects the redhead. Asch is one of the few who doesn’t care that Sync is a replica, mostly because he automatically hates replicas. Sync can get behind that sentiment. And he hates Asch, so it all works out.

Largo is the only one that Sync might not hate. It makes him stumble in his run, but he soon finds his pace again when he recalls the way Largo sometimes stares out the window, dreaming no doubt of the daughter he lost. Largo is too serious. The few moments when he’s playing are typically to get Arietta to shut up, and Sync can’t help but be grateful. So he doesn’t hate Largo much.

Monotony. Over and over. Repeat after repeat. Day after day. It’s the same as breathing, as moving, as running, as thinking, and Sync can’t break it because the pattern is something he knows so well. Why break what works, even if it’s coming apart at the seams?

He suddenly comes to a stop. He’s surrounded by trees, the forest illuminated by the sun high in the sky. He heaves for breaths, stooping just a little to catch his breath, and wonders why he suddenly chose to break the pattern. He should keep running, just as he’s always done. Running keeps the demons off his back. Running saves him from himself. And if he tries hard enough, he manages to leave his own thoughts behind long enough to have a moment to himself.

He hates the ones that try to get close. He hates the ones who try to stay too far away even more. They don’t bother trying, like he’s not worth it. On harder reflection he isn’t, but that isn’t the point either. He hates this world, hates the Score, hates and hates and hates. It’s the same pattern, just like his runs, just like his meals, just like his pathetic little life and his pathetic little role.

Sync tilts his head back and stares up through the canopy, the sunlight briefly flickering across his face, and he laughs loud because no one can hear it or hear the false ring. It’s hilarious, this fake existence that he supposedly takes so much pride in.

When he hears the thoughts threaten to roar back to life, he takes to his feet again, and pounds the ground into submission just as he does his mind. 

Repetition. Repetition is safe.


End file.
